Strong Stomachs and Kitchen Calamities
by Doodle Sketch
Summary: England has a hangover from hell and Scotland offers to concoct a drink to cure it, but his "logic" in the kitchen is ridiculous. "Somehow you've managed to create something with both the consistency of water and the consistency of tar."
1. For Flavour

"I added the vinegar but it still looks like it's missing something."

"This is-"

"Egg. That's it! Needs egg."

"This really doesn't look-"

"And do you have any cinnamon?"

"There's no way in hell I'm drinking this!"

Scotland glanced up from the small jar he was wrestling with to shoot his younger brother a quizzical look. "I thought your hangover was bothering you."

"To be honest, the idea of consuming this bothers me more." England bent forwards to sniff suspiciously at the glass of murky froth on his kitchen table and immediately lurched backwards, slapping a hand over his mouth. That smell was doing _nothing_ for his already delicate condition. Turning away, he coughed, "I make it general rule to avoid anything that comes out of your kitchen anyway."

"You don't know what you're talking about when it comes to food," Scotland replied defensively, furrowing thick his brows in annoyance and channelling more aggression into unscrewing the lid of the jar. One second later, cinnamon was strewn across the table. "Bollocks… and this is _your _kitchen, little brother, so your rule doesn't apply."

"My kitchen, which you _will _be cleaning up. And I expect you to pay for a new toaster; I don't know what you were up to this morning but don't think I didn't notice that the power cable has turned to ash."

Scotland simply hummed in response, too preoccupied with his new task of slicing a lemon (working on top of a still cinnamon-coated table) to come up with an insult. A few moments passed in silence as England briefly considered running for the sake of his taste buds – his pounding headache and morbid curiosity keeping him rooted to the spot – and his older brother began squeezing powdery lemon slices over this glass of liquid calamity.

"I know there was lemon in the recipe. The sourness distracts you from the pain, you see."

England just nodded. Scotland was talking out of his butt in that calm, I-know-what-I'm-doing voice again. It was routine for whenever anyone questioned the method of his cooking.

"May I ask what the vinegar is for?"

"The acidity will counteract the… the ale you still have in your system."

"_Right_. And as for the raw egg?"

"You must always add raw egg if you make this in the morning because it complements your breakfast."

"What the-?"

"The cinnamon is for flavour."

"I think we're well past the point to be worrying about flavour."

However, there was no point in trying to argue with Scotland's kitchen logic. Lord knows England had been failing at that for centuries and had heard him come up with far more bizarre reasoning than that. The sheer confidence that the fiery-haired man had in his own culinary knowledge was enough to baffle England if he dwelled on it. _I must admit that he's skilled with magic, though. He just needs to figure out the difference between edible food and black magical potions. Maybe if he took some advice from me once in a while-_

"Bloody hell, Scotland, easy on the whiskey!" England snapped out of his thoughts at the sight of his brother generously pouring that all-too recognisable amber liquid into the brew. "You're trying to cure my hangover, not extend it until tomorrow!"

Scotland smirked and necked the bottle, tipping a little of the fiery drink straight into his mouth. England wondered why he was letting his brother try out this "magical cure" (that he'd apparently learnt from France) on him in the first place. Maybe it was because he found it irritating how fresh Scotland had looked that morning whilst England felt one breath better off than death, especially considering that the older man had easily drunken _twice_ as much as England the previous night.

A few testing minutes later and there was no improvement on the drinks appearance. Scotland had added a few more ingredients (at random, England was sure – the recipe was long since forgotten) and now the two Brits were scrutinising the fruits of his labour.

England resisted retching. Scotland just frowned. "It doesn't look the same as France's did."

"Of course it doesn't, you twat. Somehow you've managed to create something with both the consistency of water _and_ the consistency of tar – not to mention a smell that could halt a war. Are you still drunk, is that it?"

"Maybe I should have fried the onion first?"

"Like it would make any feasible difference."

"Well, it's ready to drink. Drink up."

"Like hell!"

England swiped his coat off the back of his chair and pulled it roughly around his shoulders as he finally succumbed to his impulses and began to make his escape.

"What? Oh no you don't," Scotland exclaimed, turning quickly to grab his brother by the wrist. "I put all this effort into making this for you so you have to drink it!" England attempted to snatch his arm back but Scotland held on tightly. "C'mon, brother. Brother. England! You can't waste it!"

"Piss off, you're trying to kill me."

"I'm trying to help you."

"That bile won't help at all."

"You don't know that until you try it! Just shove it down your neck!"

"I absolutely will not!"

Scotland released his grip on England, put his hands on his hips and confidently nodded towards his creation on the table. "Once you take a sip of this magical cure, you'll never have another hangover ever again."

"Oh come, now-" England retorted, looking warily at the pint glass (which was now steaming and overflowing all over the soiled table). "How would you like to drink something that looked and smelt like _that_?"

Then he paused. An idea sparked up within him.

Scotland shifted, uncomfortable, sensing the change in his brother's demeanour and feeling his own confidence deflating ever so slightly. "Wh… what is it?"

"You drink it." England said firmly.

"I…" Scotland halted. "I'm not the one who was slumped over the table ten minutes ago yelling at the fridge light for being too intense! It's for _your _hangover!"

"Dolt, I know that. I just want you to sample it. There's a World Meeting in three days and I want to make sure that this isn't part of some ridiculous rouse to render me bed-ridden whilst you conveniently take my place!"

"I'm insulted that you would be so suspicious of me when I'm clearly just trying to be a wonderful older brother," Scotland sighed, running a hand through his startling hair. "I'll drink some though, if that's what it takes."

And he did just that, swiping the drink from the table and taking a large gulp whilst England watched intently. The Scot slammed the glass down with one hand, wiped his mouth with the other and grinned triumphantly. "Told you it was harmless."

England still wasn't convinced. "I give you one minute before you keel over," he muttered.

"I see. You're too much of a wuss," Scotland said. "It's probably better you don't drink it. See, I'm fine, but someone like you won't be able to handle it."

That was enough to rouse the reaction Scotland wanted.

"You bloody idiot! If I can stomach your bloody haggis I can bloody well stomach this! I can bloody well handle bloody _anything_, I represent the United bloody Kingdom you bloody twat!" England snatched up the glass and downed it – lemon slices, egg shells, and all – before finally exiting the kitchen and making a point of slamming the door behind him, leaving Scotland blinking in bewilderment on his own.

"I bet that door slamming did nothing for his headache," Scotland murmured, smiling and glancing at the empty glass. "He's the bloody idiot. I'm a bloody _genius_. If I had a hangover, it would definitely be gone by now."

And whilst it was true that England's hangover didn't bother him for the rest of the day, it was probably due to the fact that he was being greatly bothered by a bout of food poisoning instead.

Being nursed by an apologetic Scotland (England felt too ill to kick him out), who was, again, irritatingly unaffected, England realised that whilst he may have overestimated the strength of his stomach, his biggest error had been very much _under_estimating the strength of Scotland's.


	2. Airing the Fish

**This story really was too much fun to leave at the one chapter. It kept bugging me, so here we go... the culinary disasters continue on! **

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><p>Whilst England attempted to sleep off his sickness, Scotland appointed himself as responsible for housekeeping. The truth was he feeling very guilty about poisoning his little brother. He really hadn't meant to. He wasn't all bad, despite what England liked to claim to anyone who would listen. He figured he could make it up to England by cleaning up his house and surprising him with his favourite meal before he cleared off home again.<p>

What was England's favourite meal, though? Scotland liked haggis but England had made it clear time and time again that he despised the stuff. _He can't handle it_, Scotland smirked, as he poked around in the fridge._ Bangers and mash, he likes that, right? Oh, hang on…_ he pulled something out of the freezer. _Fish and chips, of course._ All of the British brothers were quite fond of fish and chips. _This will do nicely._

"Scotland?" England's tired voice rang out through the kitchen before he appeared in the doorway in a pair of green pyjamas, rubbing the back of his head. Scotland stood up straight and shot him a massive smile, hiding a frozen fish behind his back.

"Brother! You're looking much better." (He wasn't.) "Do you need anything? I'm taking care of things down here so you can head back up to bed if you like."

England frowned at the Scotsman. "Yeah. I want a drink. I'll get it _myself_, thank you very much." He made his way over to the sink, eyeing his brother suspiciously. Scotland kept smiling, albeit nervously.

"What are you bloody smiling at?"

"Nothing, nothing. I just-"

"What?"

"I was wondering-"

"Out with it!"

"Are you still angry? About… about… earli-"

"Don't talk about that." England's eyes flashed dangerously over his glass of water. "I want you to go home. Before you try and heal my food poisoning with another magical cure and kill me."

"C'mon… don't be like that," Scotland replied, laughing uneasily. "I had only the best intentions."

"Like I'd believe that. "

"I was trying to help!"

"You were-" England paused. He'd spotted something.

"What's wrong?" Scotland followed England's gaze. Then he realised. He wasn't doing a very good job of hiding the fish. In fact, he was practically waving it in England's face.

"IF YOU THINK YOU ARE COOKING ANYTHING IN THIS HOUSE YOU CAN BLOODY WELL-"

"England! Calm down! I was just… airing the fish."

"You were _what_?"

"It's been in the freezer too long, you have to air it every few days or it gets bruised."

"FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, SCOTLAND, YOU ARE THE MOST RIDICUL-"

"Oi! You can shut yer yap right now, it's not like YOU know anything about anything!"

"You need to get out of my house THIS INSTANT or I swear I will… I will… ugh…"

"England?"

England clutched his stomach and Scotland grabbed his shoulder, concern replacing anger in an instant. England shoved his hand aside, however, before slapping his own over his mouth and bolting from the room. Scotland stared after him, his own stomach panging with guilt. "Poor lad."

Then he looked down to the fish in his hand. "Still, being ill is no excuse for insulting me when I'm trying to be nice. I can cook. I'm _going_ to cook. It's not like he can stop me anyway. Aye. He'll enjoy it once he tries it."

England greeted his bed with his face and tried to drown out the sound of his gurgling stomach with a throaty groan. As if the hangover hadn't been bad enough. Uni, his unicorn friend, nestled against England's leg in a show of concern, but he barely registered. _What was wrong with that Scotland?_ His brother was an extremely smart man, but whenever "culinary skills" became involved, something tweaked and he became completely irrational, blinded by his own stubbornness – or delusion. England knew it well, because he himself could be the same way. Not that he'd ever acknowledge that out loud.

A crash sounded from downstairs – the kitchen, England noted, but he wasn't about to do anything to stop the madman that was raiding his fridge. Not after that most recent bout of vomiting. He'd lost all will to argue as he felt far too hellish to even _think_ about moving now, and planned to spend the remainder of the day with his face nicely buried in his pillow. At least until his nausea and/or Scotland left him alone. The whole day was turning into a disaster. But then again, he'd predicted as much. He couldn't get along with any of his brothers for longer than a day at the best of times and when Scotland announced that he'd invited himself over for the weekend England knew in the pit of his stomach (ugh, his stomach) that something like this would happen sooner or later over the course of his stay. Okay, maybe not exactly like this.

"Uni, this is so unfair. Scotland drank that wicked tonic too and he's just fine. Typical. His stomach must be made of steel – well, probably, actually. How else would he be able to eat the way he does and still be living?"

Uni just nuzzled his leg again in response. It was a small gesture but it comforted England enough nonetheless. He was well aware that he was whining like a child, but he just felt so hard done by that he couldn't bring himself to care.

England's stomach settled somewhat after a little while and allowed him to drift into a light sleep. He was woken an hour or so later by a tentative knocking on his already open bedroom door.

"England?"

"Mrrrrfff."

"…England?"

"…Sctlnd…?" England raised his head off the pillow, his face puffy and eyes misted over with drowsiness.

"Aye. How are you feeling?"

England sat up straight and examined the sight of his brother standing there in the doorway, holding a tray. A tray!

"Listen, I feel pretty guilty about earlier, even if it was your own fault you gulped it down like that," Scotland walked into the room, England unable to do anything but gape. "I cleaned everything up and made you some food… if you're up to eating, that is."

"I'll _never_ be up to eating any of your… what…. What is that supposed to be?"

Scotland met his brother's eyes, obviously a little insulted, but answered: "Fish and chips. Your favourite, right?"

"That is not fish and chips. Scotland, what happened to your hand?"

"Hm?" Scotland followed England's (concerned?) gaze to the bandage he'd haphazardly wrapped around his left hand. "This? It's nothing. Papercut."

Papercut. Psh. Like England would believe that. _The idiot's gone and burnt or diced or blended his fingers, hasn't he? _

"Scotland, you can't cook. Isn't my food poisoning proof enough? Isn't whatever you just did to yourself…" A gesture to his brother's injured hand, "…proof enough for you? I understand you're trying to help but it would help a lot more if you would just admit your food is deadly poison." England sighed and took the offending hand in his own, inspecting the hurried bandaging. He stole another glance at the tray Scotland had brought in with him.

"Bloody hell, Scotland, did you _grate_ the potatoes?"

"That's how you make chips, is it not?" Scotland looked serious. "To keep them even in size, right? Though your grater must be broken, because they came out seriously thin. Then the grater jammed so I cut the rest by hand."

_Those would be the full potato-sized chips_, England snarked. He sighed very loudly and tiredly. "And you thawed the fish properly, right?"

"Aye, I boiled it."

"…"

"You alright?"

"…Yes. Though, presentation-wise, one tends to cut a lemon slice rather than throw a full lemon onto the side, but that's a minor issue compared to… never mind."

"So… since you aren't yelling at me anymore," Scotland looked up at his brother after a few moment of silence passed between them and smiled, his eyes a little weary. England paused in unwinding the bandages for a second. He _wasn't_ yelling. Scotland had blatantly defied him (again), but he wasn't yelling about it. Was he that drained? "…and it'll be good to fill your stomach again… do you think you could… eat this for me?"

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><p><strong>Well, England?<strong>

**Reviews are complete love. I'll be sure to send you a reply with my greatest thanks.**

**To be continued! Brace your tastebuds.**


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